


Close Your Eyes With Holy Dread

by perdiccas



Series: They Call Them Cold Blooded Killers [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Episode Tag, First Time, Hero Worship, M/M, Master/Apprentice, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-15
Updated: 2009-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next morning, Sylar accepts the worship that is his due. "Every prophet needs a disciple; even Satan has his Horsemen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes With Holy Dread

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan'.

Sylar's not asleep when Luke pads into the room. But, nor does Sylar consider himself awake and up for entertaining visitors, so he stays how he is, flat on his stomach with his nose buried in the pillows. The hems of Luke's too-long jeans, never quite grown into, drag on the carpet---_swish-swish_\---with every step.

"Sylar?" Luke asks hesitantly. "Sylar?"

He lays a nervous hand on Sylar's shoulder, shaking barely hard enough to gain Sylar's notice when awake, let alone if he were really asleep. Sylar grunts and cracks an eye, staring up at him exasperated.

"We're on the news," Luke whispers.

"We were on the news yesterday," he snaps.

He watches Luke flinch a little at his tone and he shuts his eyes once more, trusting that Luke will understand he has been dismissed. But there's a dip in the bed as Luke perches beside him, and the blankets pull around his shoulders, Luke's weight on the covers disturbing the snug nest he has built around himself.

"No, Sylar. We're _on_ the news."

Before he can question the distinction, the TV at the foot of the bed roars into life and curiosity gets the better of him. An overly excited anchorwoman recounts the events of the day before and lurid, sensationalist photos---from an anonymous source---of corpses and crushed cars are splashed across the screen. It's nothing that Sylar hasn't seen before and then some, but still he feels a thrill of infamy in his chest as eyewitness statements scroll like subtitles to the gruesome carnage on show: _Never been more scared in my life… Horrific, just… horrific… I'll never forget how much blood there was_ and on.

Then…

"Well, _that's_ unflattering!" he growls.

Luke's laughing, and the police artist sketch is clearly what he wanted Sylar to see. It's a line drawing that's not quite right: his face is too angular and his nose too big. He's halfway surprised his eyes haven't been coloured red to alert people to the devil they thought they had seen within him. There's a second picture, in profile this time, and Sylar thinks it's worse. There's a deep cleft in his chin where there isn't in life and they've made his hair look _awful_. His lips are depicted far too thin and, if it's meant to be a 'snapshot' of him at the scene, then they've failed to give him the smile he'd been wearing.

"I dunno," Luke says, grinning impishly and jostling Sylar's half-sitting form with a far too familiar bump of his shoulder. "The eyebrows are spot on."

Sylar glances at the screen, at the dark, thick brows that overpower the sketch and the cruel furrow between them, before looking back at Luke and scowling. He doesn't cower like he should. Instead, he giggles, high-pitched and flippant and working on Sylar's every last nerve.

"See?" he insists, ghosting a finger towards Sylar's frown before Sylar telekinetically slaps it away.

The laughter dies in Luke's throat and for a split second, Sylar thinks he's managed to instil the proper amount of respect in the kid, but Luke's not looking at him, in fear or otherwise. His gaze is trained on the TV and he looks positively nauseated.

"What---?" Sylar starts, but then it is his turn to laugh maniacally.

Blown up, in all its grainy, soft focused glory is Luke's yearbook picture, dead centred on the screen as the anchorwoman waxes rhapsodic about him as a misunderstood teen who lashes out for attention. Some pimpled nerd, _name withheld_, who allegedly shared Luke's homeroom, gives a thirty second sound bite, using phrases so generic that Sylar doubts he's exchanged more than two words with Luke in the three years their desks have been side by side. Luke sneers and tries to shut the TV off, but Sylar floats the remote from his grip.

Neither of them laugh when Luke's mom appears on screen. She looks drawn and haggard, giving a press conference from a podium, flanked by FBI agents. There're tears in her eyes and her voice cracks, and Sylar can almost believe that she's been weeping for her missing son, not for who she has seen him become. Luke is still, and quiet, and when he swallows dryly, it seems obscenely loud, despite the blare from the TV that should nullify the sound.

"He killed him," she's saying, in a tremulous voice, exhausted. "He _murdered_ that brave soldier and then that monster lured my son away!"

Luke turns to him and Sylar shrugs. He'll take the credit if it's going. She breaks down sobbing and the agents flock around her to help her from the stage.

"No more questions!" a bullish woman snaps and Sylar smirks because he's seen that one before: Agent Hanson. The game, Sylar thinks, is afoot.

Luke's voice breaks in on his thoughts. "She's blaming you. She saw me do it and she's blaming _you_," he whispers.

"Do you think…" he asks, voice catching. "Do you think she's trying to protect me?"

_Luke, Luke, Luke_, Sylar thinks, so naïve for all his teenaged world-weariness. There's a wistful look on his face, and Sylar thinks that he shouldn't have been so easily taken in by that indecent display. It was calculated, prearranged, something intended to tug at whatever lingering affection Luke might have for his mother no matter how he professed to despise her just to have him drop the dime on Sylar. Nice try, Hanson, he thinks, but he'll be damned if he lets the only lead he has on Daddy-dearest turn State's evidence.

"Don't get your hopes up," Sylar scoffs. "No one wants to be known as the woman who birthed a monster." He tosses the remote back to Luke and watches as it hits his chest, falling down to his lap when Luke doesn't make a move to catch it. His head is bowed, and on his knees, his knuckles are turning white where he digs his nails to his jeans in impotent rage.

Luke gives a sudden, frustrated yell and nukes the TV. The metal within it sparks dangerously and the mostly plastic casing melts and bubbles in a cloud of acrid fumes. Sylar cuffs Luke behind the ear, and he wonders if Luke's ribs still hurt from the night before. He hopes they do and leans in closer, ready to jab him there again should Luke make the unwise move of trying to start a fight.

"Ow!" Luke hisses.

He's pissed off at Sylar, at the fact that he is right, and he rounds on him, hand to the back of his head where he's been hit. His teeth are bared and his biceps tensing; it's meant to be intimidating, Sylar supposes, but all he feels is annoyance. Luke's mother has no doubt told the Feds where they're heading and they need to get there before Hanson fucks this up for him like she did with that Walker kid.

So instead of slamming Luke against the wall and kicking the crap out of him until he learns some goddamn manners, like Sylar thinks he is well within his rights to do, he merely raises an eyebrow and juts out his chin, two fingers extended warningly and waved in Luke's general direction. Luke grunts but stands down, pacing the room as he tries to walk off his anger. Sylar finally shoves the covers aside and follows, giving him a squeeze to the back of his neck with a hand that both threatens and comforts.

"Don't let her get to you," he says because he knows what it is to want to be loved so badly that you'll cling to any semblance of human emotion and label it affection. "Don't let her win."

Luke shrugs off the touch and grunts at him again, expression guarded as he hugs his arms around his bare chest. Sylar holds up his hands in defeat and turns on his heel. He didn't bring Luke along to coddle him through a temper tantrum.

*****

In the en-suite bathroom, Sylar takes his time to piss and scratch and stretch. He hadn't wanted to get up, not yet, but now that he's fully awake, he may as well make himself presentable if today's the day he'll meet the man who's the reason he is who he is. He scratches at his stubble and decides against shaving. It's amazing how people are fooled by the most superficial disguises. Hundreds of thousands of people must have seen that appalling sketch by now and all it would take to glide, unsuspected, past the vast majority is a low pulled ball cap and some scruff.

Sylar cleans his teeth with a commandeered toothbrush, humming to himself and rooting through the medicine cabinet out of idle curiosity. He finds two mostly full prescriptions of Lunesta. Two insomniacs, he thinks; explains why they were up so late to greet them. He's clad in only boxers, having discarded the rest of his clothes before they could leave bloodstains on the sheets, and has nowhere to pocket the pills. Sylar makes a mental note to palm them as they leave because if Luke's going to always be this temperamental, he might be grateful, sometime soon, for a foolproof way to knock the kid out.

From a dusty corner, Sylar unearths a tube of burn cream. He taps it on the edge of the sink, beating out a rhythm as he thinks of the angry red blisters that have formed on Luke's forearm. Sylar thinks the pain is not nearly as great as what Luke deserves and he has the vindictive urge to bury the antiseptic somewhere where Luke won't find it later. But the more rational part of his mind knows that Luke will only be more irritating if he's constantly bitching about his arm---something that Sylar admits, to Luke's credit, that he hasn't yet done---and while the sedatives might save Sylar's sanity, a dead weight in the passenger seat seems a no more appealing companion.

And that, Sylar convinces himself, is why he takes the tube, twirling it the air and catching it with telekinetic precision, when he heads back to the bedroom.

*****

Luke's sitting at the foot of the bed, head bowed and eyes downcast. Sylar feels himself relax at the sight, tension he hasn't known he was holding leaching out from his spine with the confirmation that Luke hasn't thrown in the towel and gone crying back to Mommy. It's only then that Sylar realises the possibility that Luke might abandon him has been whispering at the edges of his mind, and he shakes away the unsettling truth that the thought's been bothering him.

He tells himself that he needs Luke for what he knows. Even if where he thinks Sylar's father is isn't where he actually is, as Sylar suspects the case may be, it's still the best lead he has. And while Luke's been giving Sylar vague directions, he's kept mum on the exact destination in some paltry attempt at an insurance plan. Instead of wringing the information from him at the first gas station they stopped at, Sylar has let him have his false sense of security because, he'd reasoned, it'll amuse him to see the cocksure brat get a rude awakening if his information is wrong.

But as he flings the burn cream at Luke, chuckling softly as he starts and then mumbles his bewildered thanks, Sylar admits that in less than a day, he's gotten used to having the little bastard around. He likes the way that Luke trots at his heels, letting himself be kicked and then crawling back, begging Sylar to lick his wounds. He likes the wide-eyed wonderment that he can engender, using his abilities for mundane things like passing the sugar for coffee that Luke clearly hates, but seems to think it manly to drink.

Sylar likes that no amount of youthful cynicism or foot shuffling, feigned indifference can cover up the raw admiration Luke has for him. He likes that when leans in close, Luke shudders and holds his breath, swaying nearer still until Sylar can smell the naked _want_ rolling off him. He likes after just one day, Sylar's approval means more to Luke than his mother's ever will. Every prophet needs a disciple; even Satan has his Horsemen.

Luke's staring at him warily, the greasy ointment smeared across his arm. Sylar walks towards him and ruffles his hair, running his fingers through it, noting it feels little grimy and a little too long. He smiles to think of the arguments that Luke and his mom probably had about haircuts.

"How's your arm?" he asks.

"Okay…" Luke says. He's gazing up at Sylar with guarded eyes but Sylar can feel the way he cranes his neck, oh so slightly, to press back into Sylar's hand as he pets him and there's a flicker in his expression that tells Sylar that as much as Luke doesn't want to need Sylar's acceptance, he does. Desperately.

Over and over, he smoothes Luke's hair back from his forehead, soothing him with firm, tender strokes of his hand. And just when Luke's eyes flutter shut, when his head begins to loll backwards, turning his throat up to Sylar, pale and exposed, Sylar scratches lightly at his scalp and gently pulls his hair.

"We'll have to change this," Sylar murmurs, nodding at the hair still carding between his fingers.

"They're looking for us," he continues, ignoring the small whimpers Luke makes as he tugs his hair again, harder this time. "Dye it or cut it or something. We need to be incognito for a while thanks to your mother's theatrics."

Sylar smiles when Luke declines to take the bait and jump to his mother's defence.

"Who cares if they catch us? You can beat them," Luke whispers.

Sylar's hand slides from his hair, strokes his cheek and cradles his chin. He leans down until he feels Luke shiver and he knows that Luke can feel his breath, hot, on his skin.

"Of course I can beat them," he breathes into Luke's ear. "But it's a waste of my time and a pain in my ass. We need to pick our battles. Don't do anything stupid that I have to come rescue you from."

Sylar waits for Luke to hum his assent before adding, "Because I'm not really the rescuing type."

Luke turns to him and grins. Their noses are nearly touching and Luke's breath smells sickly sweet, like he's snuck into the kitchen while Sylar slept and helped himself to the Fruit Loops they'd found the night before. His tongue darts out and nervously wets his lips. He swallows audibly when Sylar's gaze drops from his eyes to his full mouth, his breath getting heavier as Sylar chuckles, studying the path the tip of his tongue makes over his chapped lips.

Then he clears his throat and ducks his head, and Sylar laughs again, tilting Luke's chin with a single finger as he straightens up in front of him. He forces Luke to meet his eye, even as his cheeks flush a deep, burning red. And then, he takes his hands from Luke's skin altogether and watches as he trembles at the loss.

Sylar stands before him, completely at ease as Luke's gaze rakes up and down his near nude body. He listens to the hitch in his breath, and he catalogues every time Luke's eye line stutters, darting here and there to focus on chest hair and biceps, on hips and thighs and firm, lean stomach. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth as Luke glances at his crotch and then away, then, slowly, bashfully back again.

Sylar takes in how Luke shifts subtly where he sits and the tiny, desperate roll of his hips that Sylar knows so well, that small, imperceptible movement that will brush a hardening cock against his fly. And, when Luke lets out a breathy, shuddering sigh, Sylar hums, too, at the desire that begins to tug at the base of his own balls.

Now, Luke's eyes are narrowed and he's staring at Sylar's middle, really looking, not simply admiring. He reaches out and strokes Sylar's scar. Pale, soft fingers glide over the whitened, too-smooth line and Sylar hisses involuntarily that Luke should hone in on his past weaknesses. Luke looks up, bolder now, but doesn't take his hand away. Up and down, he caresses Sylar's skin with misplaced confidence, splaying his palm flat over the mark and brushing his thumb through the dark line of hair below Sylar's navel, so near beside his scar.

For a moment, Sylar allows it and then his better judgement kicks in. Sylar hasn't survived this long by assuming the best intentions in others. He covers Luke's hand with his own and holds him still with deceptive tenderness.

"Do I need to slice this off?" he asks, pinching Luke at the wrist, tapping two fingers against the twisting muscle and tendons of his joints. His threat is clear.

"No," Luke gasps, laughing with his exclamation, half in disbelief and half, Sylar is pleased to note, in nervous terror. "I'm not gonna..."

His words trail off and he gulps loudly, but he holds Sylar's stare and eventually, Sylar grunts and takes his hand away. There's a moment's pause and then Luke starts to trace the line of his scar again, trying to stifle a relieved sigh as he does. Silently, softly, with rapt attention, Luke touches him. Sylar thinks that this, this complete and utter adoration for him, is the closest Luke has known to what it means to love. His mind drifts to how Elle had betrayed him, and he thinks that maybe this is the closest that he has known to being loved.

"I'm sorry," Luke mumbles. "About last night. In the kitchen? I'm sorry."

The world goes hazy and it feels like a thousand fingers brush over Sylar's body, glancing off him and then, scurrying away before his vision refocuses.

"Don't lie to me," he says mildly, eyebrow raised.

Luke smirks up at him, caught, and shrugs. "Ok, I'm not sorry," he admits. "But I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't sure you'd survive."

He pauses and Sylar nods. That part, at least, seems true.

"I just wanted to see how it works, y'know? Up close."

"I thought Agent Simmons gave us a rather vivid demonstration."

"Not _that_," Luke insists. "I wanted to see you heal. Watch you die and come back again."

Sylar nods, because it's the truth and because he knows so very well that fascination. "No urge for a repeat performance?"

Luke shakes his head and, on Sylar's abdomen, his fingers falter a little before he clears his throat and shyly asks, "How… What happened?"

"Someone tried to kill me." Sylar's voice is gruff and low. This conversation could easily get dangerous.

"That seems to happen a lot," Luke quips, nervously chewing his lips when Sylar only rolls his eyes in reply. "Why didn't it heal?"

"It's from before."

"Before?" Luke presses, very nearly too insistent. There're limits here that Luke is unwisely trying to breach.

"Before I could heal."

Luke seems to recognise the dangerous waters he's wading in because he drops his gaze at Sylar's shark-like grin but asks softly anyway, "You couldn't always heal?"

"No. No, that one's pretty new."

"And the rest?"

"I've been collecting them for a while, Luke. That's all you need to know."

Luke nods quickly and falls quiet. Sylar's glad he's not fighting back on this one because if he explains, and then Luke asks, _Are you going to take my ability too?_, Sylar doesn't know what his answer will be. And, Sylar has never not known what his answer will be, because it has always been, _Of course_.

"Did you kill him?" Luke whispers. "The person who---"

"Not yet," Sylar grunts because that's a sore spot too.

"Did it hurt?"

"Like hell," he admits.

"I'm sorry," Luke says. The truth again. _How novel._ And then Luke's tilting forward and his lips are brushing where his fingers have been, mapping Sylar's scar with his mouth, tracing it wetly with his tongue.

Luke rests his forehead against Sylar's skin, breaking his mouth away to whisper, "Sorry." His lips move against Sylar's spit-damp stomach and his breath curls warmly in the narrow space between them.

"Don't lie to me, Luke," Sylar breathes.

He weaves his fingers into Luke's thick hair, urging him closer until Luke's lips are on him once more. His mouth is soft and full, and eager as it sucks and laps. Luke's hands find Sylar's hips and, when Sylar inches half a step back, Luke slides to his knees before him without ceasing his kisses.

Luke's thumbs notch to Sylar's iliac crests and the tips of his fingers dig, pleadingly, into the firm swell of Sylar's ass. He ghosts his lips over the hair low on Sylar's belly and he turns his face to the side to rub his smooth, soft cheeks against the coarse curls that wind their way above the waistband of Sylar's boxer-briefs.

He presses quick, enthusiastic kisses along the line where skin and cotton meet before darting up again and nipping cheekily at Sylar's navel.

"Luke," Sylar sighs and, in reply, Sylar feels him groan against his hip.

He buries his face in Sylar's groin, nuzzling against cloth covered flesh that's both hard and soft at once. Luke leads with his nose, trailing the tip along Sylar's length, moaning as he inhales deeply, letting himself be drowned in the richness of Sylar's musk. His lips follow, stretching around the thickness of Sylar's erection, sucking at him through the fabric of his shorts and licking at the sweat and pre-come that's dampening Sylar's lap.

Sylar cups he cheek and holds him near as he grinds his face between Sylar's thighs, refusing to let himself be pulled away just yet, even if for a moment, to let underwear be discarded and have flesh meet flesh. Beneath his palm, Luke's skin seems unnaturally soft and smooth, and nothing like the last man Sylar allowed so close.

Where Mohinder's angles were sharp, Luke's are plump and rounded. Where Mohinder was rough with stubble and teeth and nails, Luke is nothing but gentle kisses and soothing tongue. Where Mohinder looked up at him with angry eyes that demanded more, Luke's plead for whatever Sylar deigns to give him.

Where Sylar knelt before Mohinder, aching for the acceptance that his mother, that Chandra and the world could never give him, Luke prostrates himself for Sylar, clawing for the same.

Where Mohinder cast Sylar aside, Sylar gathers Luke in his arms.

He frames Luke's face with his hands, nudging his chin up so that when Sylar crouches down they can kiss. It's soft and nervous and almost chaste, Luke pressing forward a little too clumsily as Sylar's tongue traces over the seam of his mouth. Then, Luke's fingers delve below the elastic at Sylar's waist, tugging with eager desperation as he grunts into Sylar's kisses, and Sylar stands, to let Luke strip him as he wants.

"_Oh_," Luke gasps, at the sight of Sylar's cock. Thick and flushed, glistening at the tip, it hovers beside Luke's nose, bobbing in gentle time to the twitch of Sylar's hips. Luke's eyes flutter shut and Sylar thinks that Luke must feel his heat against his cheek. He hears him swallow and watches as he licks his lips, again and again, and he thinks that Luke is salivating, dripping and wet every which where for what he wants, even as inexperience stays his hand.

"Have you ever?" Sylar asks.

Luke shakes his head with naked honesty but, defiantly, reaches forward all the same and cradles Sylar's balls on his palm.

"Oh, wow," he breathes, cupping and weighing, rolling Sylar's sac between his fingers and smoothing his thumb over the fine hair there. He lilts forward, tongue lapping out to taste, feeling out, with his lips, the different textures of Sylar's body: loose and wrinkled skin, testicles, smooth and hard below. All the while, Sylar's fingers rake lovingly through his hair. "Wow."

Sylar laughs at the exclamations that spill unfiltered from his lips but he moans too, and strokes Luke's neck to appease the flush that rises as Luke thinks himself being mocked. He laughs because nothing has ever felt so _right_, so exactly as Sylar has always deserved. And this, Sylar thinks, is how Mohinder should have been: struck dumb with wonder at Sylar's mere existence, reaching for him, enraptured, to worship him as best he could. There should have never been needles or blood or anger, only complete and willing submission.

Luke is mouthing, now, up his cock. He's pressed Sylar's length flat against him stomach, one brazen thumb caressing ever tightening spirals below the head as Luke licks with short, sharp laps up from Sylar's balls. Unrestrained, Sylar arches forwards from the hips and Luke grunts, lips sliding messily as his balance wavers and his coordination is disrupted.

Sylar's dick stutters, hot and throbbing, along Luke's soft and too-smooth cheek. Luke tries to pull back, to fasten his mouth again to the head, but Sylar stills him with firm fingers at the base of his skull. He takes himself in hand and he rubs against Luke's skin, leaving a sticky trail of pre-come from cheekbone to chin and neck.

Sylar guides his cock to Luke's mouth, running the head over pliant, pouting lips, slicking them with his wetness before dipping in, shallowly, gently, _lovingly_, until the ridge of the tip descends into _hot and close and tight_ as Luke suckles at him. Then, Sylar pulls back, groaning when Luke whimpers for more, pushing back in no deeper, and teasing the tip of his tongue. Again and again, Sylar slips his cock between those lips as Luke kneels, eyes shining and mouth tipped open, gasping like a penitent begging for salvation. His hand pumps along his length and the fingers in Luke's hair tense, pulling now of their own accord, and Sylar lurches back, pulling out and out and away as his cock pulses until Luke's skin shimmers, wet and white with his spunk.

Semen drips from Luke's chin and he's spluttering, breathless with his eyes shut tight, basking in Sylar's release. And, with trembling thighs, Sylar crouches down before him, brushing his lips to Luke's crown before kissing each closed lid, butterfly light. Sylar swipes his thumb over Luke's mouth, so prettily soiled, and then slides the tip over Luke's forehead and down between his brows, anointing him with Sylar's come.

Then, he's standing quickly and tossing Luke bodily, and with his mind, upon the bed. With impatient telekinetic fingers, he slices away Luke's clothing, growling at the fearful, enthralled, "_Sylar_" that Luke lets loose.

He stretches out over Luke's prone body, near enough to feel every heaving breath he takes and he fists his hand in Luke's hair, pinning his head to the pillows as Luke cranes up to try to kiss him. He wraps his free hand around Luke's cock, chuckling at the seeping wetness from the tip, at the way his hips buck and his whole body writhes as Sylar tests his heft against his palm.

"_Sylar_," Luke pleads, so fraught with pleasure that it sounds like pain.

"Scared I'm gonna hurt you?" he demands, even as his hand begins to stroke, up and down, and up and down, feathering and twisting and squeezing with perfect cadence.

"No," Luke groans. His eyes are wild and he claws at Sylar's biceps, dragging him closer still as he strains against that hand that restrains him.

In Luke's ear, Sylar breathes, "Maybe you should be."

Beneath him, Luke quakes, coming hard and fast, and shooting far, hot ribbons of semen striping his chest and stomach. Sylar pulls back and wipes his sticky palm on the inside of Luke's thigh, the hand in his hair soothing once more as he watches Luke come down from his orgasm. His body is slick with sweat and he seems soiled all over with semen, the skin below a glowing, sex-flushed pink. His mouth is slack and his breathing so heavy that it borders on lethargic. Dazed eyes watch Sylar's face, waiting for their next cue.

Sylar's gaze skids to the bedside table and the alarm clock catches his eye. It's late, far too late and they need to get moving before the neighbours notice the unfamiliar car in the drive. He clears his throat but his voice is still raw and gruff with his afterglow. "Clean up and get dressed. We have to go."

He starts to sit but Luke flings his arms around his neck and yanks him back down into a rough, tooth-clacking kiss, all salt and bitterness between cooling, sticky mouths that threaten to fuse together. When Sylar bites at his bottom lip, Luke obediently releases him.

"I mean it," he says as he slides off the bed and Luke stays prone, spread-eagled and dopey, still too weakly post-orgasmic to move.

"You need to be in the car in twenty minutes or…" It's on the tip of Sylar's tongue to say _or I'll leave you behind_ but empty threats are meaningless. "Just be in the car in twenty minutes."


End file.
